


blood and wine

by jdphoenix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Community: dramione_remix, F/M, Wartime Romance, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 23:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18537946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: With Snape dead Hermione finds herself unequal to the task of becoming his replacement in the Order.Or, a dramione wartime remix of Phantom/Christine.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for Dramione Remix's round 1 way back in 2011 and with the announcement of their final round kicking off this month, I was reminded that I never posted this to ao3. I've edited it a bit for posting here and though I refrained from doing any deep edits (it's mostly minor punctuation/grammar fixes) I'll admit I did add or cut a line or two just to make things flow better. That said, the story has not changed at all.
> 
> Also be sure you check out the [remix](https://dramione-remix.livejournal.com/) before it ends. I haven't participated in years but I always loved it and will be sad to see it go.

He won’t take his eyes off her. Nearly a quarter of an hour ago now he dragged her into this room, tossed her a dishtowel to wrap her bleeding arm in, and began staring at her. From the outside she assumed the house was abandoned. The chimney on the south wall is half gone, the rose garden is overgrown, and the front porch is one gaping hole. She should have known the herb garden was too well kept but she’d been so relieved to finally find some decent wormwart that she hadn’t given the even rows a second thought.

It was far too easy for Malfoy to catch her off guard, take her wand, and force her into the house. She’s thoroughly ashamed and doesn’t know what she’ll tell Remus once she makes it out of here and, thinking of that, she really needs to find an escape.

His eyes, for what must be the tenth time, take in the long-dried blood stains on her only coat, the threadbare shoulders, and the frayed cuffs and collar. Heat rises in her cheeks when his gaze rests for too long on her chest. She shifts in the stiff wooden chair he shoved her into and wonders how he can be at all comfortable in its twin across the table.

“If you’re going to kill me,” she says primly, “could you please just get it over with?”

He lazily lifts his eyes to her face. Both their wands rest between his hands. He keeps rotating them, one over the other.

“How did you find out about this place?” he asks, sounding as if she stumbled upon his preferred study alcove in the Hogwarts library.

She turns her head defiantly away from him. Her gaze falls on the Death Eater mask and cloak tossed lazily on a chair near the door and she quickly turns her eyes to the four fireplaces lining the side of the room. Only one is going, a potion bubbles quietly over the flames. The color and consistency are familiar but the smell isn’t one she can link to any potion she knows. She gets a strong whiff and her mind jumps back three months to when they lost Snape.

The mission had been a horrible failure. Snape dead, at least three more seriously injured, and Ron missing for nearly two days. The moment she saw him again, Hermione jumped on him, hugging him so tight he complained of not being able to breathe.

This smell was the one to hit her in that moment. At the time she thought it simply the smell of boy, compounded by so long without a shower. Now she wonders if it’s some weapon Malfoy has been brewing.

Think of the devil, he lets out a ragged sigh and she sees him run his hand through his hair. It’s gotten longer since she last saw him. That’s to be expected, she reminds herself, it’s been nearly two years since Dumbledore’s death, but she finds it difficult to imagine her former schoolmates as changed by the time as she and her friends.

“Listen, Granger, I’m not asking you where Potter is or where the Order’s safe houses are located. I’m just asking how you found my house.”

“Your--” she begins before she remembers she’s not speaking to him and resolutely snaps her mouth shut.

Malfoy shakes his head. “Stop acting so childish. I inherited it just like I’ve inherited several properties over the years and will one day inherit Malfoy Manor. Now tell me how you found my house!” he growls.

She presses her spine against the back of the chair, bracing herself for whatever his punishment will be when she remains silent.

“Fine,” he snaps and lifts his wand.

“Accio,” he says, flicking his wand towards a set of shelves stocked with everything a potion-maker could want. She’s so shocked he didn’t cast the Cruciatus she has no time to mount a defense against his next spell. “Imperio.”

The world goes fuzzy and warm. She opens her mouth at the tiniest prodding and a few drops of cold liquid touch her tongue. Immediately the curse lifts, replaced with something much worse. There’s a chill in her gut and she knows exactly what she just swallowed.

Malfoy stares at her across the table just as before, only now there’s a bottle of Veritaserum near his left hand. If she’s fast enough she can reach across the table, grab her wand, and curse him. Almost the moment she thinks it she sees the plan unraveling in her mind. His coat will be shield charmed, she’ll grab his wand by mistake and it won’t recognize her, he’ll grab her arm the moment it comes within his reach…

Quietly he asks, “How did you find this house?”

“Snape.” The word slips from her tongue. “His journal mentioned this place.”

Malfoy nods, this making perfect sense to him. “He always refused to use the lab at the Manor, wouldn’t even set foot in it.”

He sounds nostalgic. It’s odd, it never occurred to her that Malfoy and Snape might have been close.

“Why not?” she asks and blames the potion for loosening her tongue.

He’s still lost in memories and smiles wryly. It lightens his entire countenance and she wonders how she can have known him for half her life and never have met this man before her.

“It was a birthday gift when I was twelve. It was obvious then that I had a talent for potions and father wanted to encourage me. I got to design every facet of it down to the location. Snape didn’t approve of an aboveground lab.”

She shifts, uncomfortable with the reminder that Malfoy from her hasn’t always been a murderer. The chair beneath her creaks and he’s startled from his reverie.

“Do you have this journal with you?” Malfoy asks, ignoring the interlude completely.

“Yes.”

He holds out his hand. She considers denying him but knows if she forces him he’ll make any search of her person as humiliating as possible. She pulls the book from a pocket in her coat and slides it slowly across the table. Malfoy tucks both wands up his sleeve, far out of her reach. He lifts the book between his hands and turns back the soft leather cover with the utmost care. His pale fingers stroke the pages and his throat works visibly. He takes his time, turning every page and looking them over one by one.

Hermione alternates between watching his eyes trail over the words and tracking the swaying of his left sleeve. The tips of both wands are poking out the end, taunting her.

Finally, after what must be half an hour, Malfoy sets the book down and slides it back to her. The anger that boils up in her at waiting so long is tempered by the fact that his dawdling has allowed time for the Veritaserum to fade.

“What do you need?” he asks.

It’s the absolute last thing she ever would have imagined him saying.

“What?” she sputters.

“Snape was the Order’s last Potions Master. You don’t exactly meet that standard.”

She scoffs, folds her arms over her chest. “You were only top of our Potions class because Snape--”

“Because Snape taught me what he knew. I could tell the difference between a snake-stone and a bezoar when I was seven and he may never have entered my lab but that didn’t stop him from quizzing me whenever he met mother for tea or accompanied me and father to a Quidditch match. And don’t tell me you’re not struggling,” he snarled. “You wouldn’t have come out here alone unless you were desperate.”

“For ingredients,” she snaps, though he’s right. She hates him for it but he is. The Order needs a Potions Master and though she’s passable, she can’t match Snape’s skill or experience and the time she wastes trying leaves her little opportunity to do anything else for the cause. The old bastard may have been able to do the job for both sides and be a full time spy on top of it all but Hermione hasn’t had time to even think about horcruxes in weeks.

Malfoy considers her carefully, his face impassive once more. “Fine,” he says. He pulls the wands from his sleeve and puts them tip to tip. “Coligo,” he says and her wand glows a faint blue. He tosses it to her.

She catches it out of the air and looks from it to him, too surprised to use it.

“It won’t work again until you reach the edge of the property. You can go. Take all the herbs you want on your way.”

She gapes at him and slowly rises, heading for the door to the garden. Twisted, thorny vines block the window but they recede the moment her hand touches the doorknob.

“And Granger?” Malfoy calls when she turns it. He hasn’t moved and sits there, spinning his wand in one hand like he’s killing time waiting for a class to start. “When you finally realize that you do need my help, I’m here most nights.”

That’s how it begins. She swears she’s never going back, tries to forget the house’s location entirely. It takes a week for life to prove her wrong. The full moon rises and, as Remus’ first scream echoes through the safe house they’re using, Hermione knows something’s gone horribly wrong.

Come dawn he’s alive. He even has the strength to tell her it’s not her fault, the Wolfsbane Potion is terribly difficult, there are bound to be some hiccups as she gets a handle on it.

It takes her another week of watching Remus recover to come to the conclusion she knew she had to.

“You were right,” she says.

Malfoy barely looks up from the bezoar he’s grinding. “Light the fire on the end there,” he says. “We’ll start with healing potions. I figure you’ll be in need of them given the beating your side have been taking these past months.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, doing as he says.

“That is a question you don’t get to ask.”

 

 

\----------

 

 

It is never “that’s too much,” always “not that much!” or “when I said a pinch, I didn’t mean one of Hagrid’s!” or “who taught you to chop? A handless troll?” followed by a comment on her heritage or her looks. She takes it because there isn’t much else she can do. She needs him and they both know it.

When he says these things to her, she simply adjusts her measurements or the angle of her knife as she slices her pig’s heart. She will not fight him, will not rise to whatever bait he’s only dangling before her out of habit. At least she hopes that’s the only reason he does it. She can’t imagine why he’d be here if he truly hates her as much as he seems to.

“Why do you do that?” he asks one day, setting down his own blade and studying her with inscrutable grey eyes.

She looks at her work area, searching for whatever he’s found fault with this time. He’s taken her back to basics because, as he put it, she “can’t even boil water properly.” She’s been chopping and grating and slicing all morning but can’t for the life of her figure out what he’s found wrong this time.

“You ignore me,” he says and his eyes blaze. She’s made a grave error. This, her method of self-preservation, is the greatest insult she could have thrown his way.

“I don’t--” He’s already taking in a breath to yell at her and she quickly changes tactics. “There’s really nothing to say, is there?” she asks carefully.

He doesn’t move but somehow has become more dangerous, like a predator waiting for an excuse to pounce. “I just insulted your mother,” he says.

She’s sure, from the way he says it, that had she been the one to say, “If your mother taught you to cook like this it’s a wonder you didn’t starve before coming to Hogwarts,” he’d have hexed her immediately.

“My mother couldn’t cook,” she says honestly. “Everything I know I learned from my Aunt Caroline.”

He watches her for several seconds more before letting out a mirthless laugh. “Fine. Your mother can’t cook. This isn’t the first time an insult I’ve thrown at you has been true, it never stopped you from fighting back before.”

“Well, that was before, wasn’t it?” she asks and returns to slicing the pig’s heart.

She can feel him watching her and tries not to let her discomfort show. She has no choice but to slow her work; she can’t focus well under his scrutiny.

He sighs and comes up behind her, encasing her hand in his so that he can adjust her hold on the knife. All the hiding has left her paler than she’s ever been but her hand still looks dark beside his. His fingers are warm and rough with calluses as he guides the blade.

“Let the weight of the knife do the work,” he says. “Too much pressure on the heart and you’ll just end up squashing it. You want a clean cut.”

She nods, covertly trying to dispel the feel of his breath on her neck. He’s far too close for an enemy, too close for a friend even. She should be repulsed. This is the man who tormented her, who betrayed them all. The hand clutching hers has cast Unforgiveables, has tortured and probably killed. There’s no disgust in her though, only a strange uneven feeling in her gut like the room’s tilted.

He guides her through a few strokes more then steps away, watching her take over. The space he vacated feels empty now. She adjusts her stance. Satisfied with her work he moves away to check on his potion.

His back to her he says, “Just … try not to be so different, okay?”

“We’re all different,” she says quietly, wishing the room would right itself now that he’s moved away. She doesn’t know if he hears or if she even wanted him to.

 

 

\----------

 

 

She shouldn’t be out on this mission—she knows too much about the Order, about Harry, about the horcruxes—but there aren’t enough of them left for any one person to be protected above the rest.

“Bombarda!” she calls over her shoulder. A tree turns to kindling and woodchips rain down. A Death Eater screams in pain. Bile rises up in her throat. She did that. She made that inhuman cry erupt from a man’s mouth.

Somewhere to her left she hears Lavender throwing out a litany of curses—the non-magical kind—and her voice cuts off suddenly. Hermione alters course abruptly and finds herself thrown into a tree. Her wand hand is twisted behind her back. She holds onto her wand so tight one of her fingers breaks as the wood is wrenched from her grasp. A solid body presses up against hers, pushing her into the tree so tightly the bark cuts into her cheek. Lavender is screaming now. Not the high-pitched, animal wail that comes from the Cruciatus, but a sobbing jabber of noise. They don’t want her losing herself in the pain.

The Death Eater holding Hermione leans his face to hers. His mask shines in the moonlight and warm breath puffs visibly from the thin mouth slit, bringing with it the smell of blood and wine. He digs a hand into her hair, twisting her head back so she can see his right eye. Silver, like the mask and just as bright, just as expressionless. “I really,” he hisses viciously, “don’t want to start all over teaching another of your idiot friends.”

“Malfoy?” she gasps out and the word scrapes along the inside of her throat like a knife.

A wicked scream rips the air and he presses tighter against her, hiding his mask in her neck. The cold metal burns, the unique carvings and holes scrape painfully against her skin. She hears a Death Eater run past, cackling madly and throwing curses into the night without a thought to who or what they hit. Were the voice female it would be Bellatrix but the last few months a new Death Eater has appeared. No one knows who he is but he’s as mad as Voldemort’s second and nearly as powerful.

The Death Eater skips past, never seeing them. Hermione’s heart hammers in her chest and her breath shakes out of her. Malfoy’s hand grips hers tightly, carefully avoiding the finger he broke. He’s not saving her. The truce that exists between them at his house doesn’t extend to the battlefield. And yet here they are.

The screams from the left start up again.

“Lavender,” she gasps. The screams are growing weaker now.

“She’s dead,” Malfoy says.

“Not yet!” she yells. It’s too loud. The forest seemed full of sound a moment ago but once the words left her mouth everything except Lavender’s sobs stopped.

Malfoy curses under his breath then lifts her wand and lets out a real curse in the direction of Lavender’s voice. Fog pours from his own wand and in seconds she can’t see more than a foot in any direction. She wrenches away, sprinting in the direction of Lavender’s gasps, Malfoy and her wand forgotten. She doesn’t hear Malfoy’s voice again but Death Eaters all around her cry out in quick succession, their bodies falling to the ground with dull thuds.

Hermione trips and goes sprawling in the dirt. Her hands fly out to catch her and slide over rough dirt and stone. Something warm and wet squelches under her left hand, hears Lavender’s moan, and tries not to think of all the blood. Her right hand touches smooth wood, a wand. She grabs Lavender and apparates away without a second thought.

The safe house is in chaos. The right half of Tonks’ face is covered in blood when she lets them in. She says it’s just a scratch but the left side is like parchment and her eyes flutter for a moment when she stands unsupported by the door. Hermione doesn’t have time to care. She lays Lavender on the first empty cot she finds and leaves her to the Healers.

She doesn’t know how much time passes or what she does in it, but she doesn’t fight when Molly drags her to another cot. She doesn’t even feel most of her injuries until Molly’s magic touches them each in turn. The pain she’s been numb to in her head, her side, her leg rises up, gripping her tightly, and then it’s gone as if it was never there, only to reappear in whichever part of Hermione’s body Molly turns to next.

The medicinal potions she spent three weeks of nights brewing with Malfoy are being passed around. Some small part of her has been afraid they’ll do more harm than good despite the eye she always kept on the cauldron but she has no energy for that fear now. Besides, he saved her, saved Lavender.

Once deemed well enough to vacate the bed for the next injured party, she drops the wand she’s carrying on the pillow beside Lavender’s head. She doesn’t know who it belongs to, friend or Death Eater, but it’s certainly not hers. All she wants to do, as she climbs up the steps to the second floor and the warm bed she’ll sleep in tonight, is close her eyes for a week. She’s got a Wolfsbane potion to get back to tomorrow and if she sleeps now she’ll never have time to look over Snape’s journal.

In the end she falls asleep on top of it, her cheek cushioned by yellowing pages. Before she met Malfoy she read through the thing a dozen times, hoping to find some trick she overlooked to getting the potions just right. Since then she must have read it another two dozen times. What did Malfoy find in here that convinced him to help her? All she sees are notes about the proper ratio of armadillo bile to mandrake leaves and what the real definition of “finely ground” is. If there’s a secret message to Malfoy among the pages, she isn’t seeing it.

 

 

\----------

 

 

When she goes to the house the next evening her Wolfsbane Potion is waiting just where she left it and her wand is on the kitchen table.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, pocketing the wand.

Malfoy doesn’t turn from his cauldron but his shoulders tighten.

She isn’t insulted. He often won’t pay her any mind unless she’s doing something wrong. This is exactly why, several minutes later, she stops between stirring her potion 22 times counter clockwise and adding the foxglove when she finds him staring at her, his eyes clouded.

“What?” she asks, horrified. If she’s done something wrong there isn’t time to brew another before the full moon.

Malfoy shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says and goes back to his work.

“Are you sure?” she asks, ignoring his potion. “If the potion isn’t exact-”

“It’s fine!” he snaps. “Lupin’ll be fine! Just--” He falls into one of the uncomfortable chairs and runs a hand over his mouth. She notices there’s blood under his nails and finds herself looking over his dark robes. The black could be hiding any number of injuries from her sight. “Just keep working,” he finishes on a whisper.

She does but only because it sounds like he’s begging her.

 

 

\----------

 

 

Remus catches her arm before she can pass him on the stairs. “Can I speak to you outside?”

She nods and lets him lead the way. This safe house isn’t the smallest she’s been in but it’s definitely the most crowded. The only place they can find any privacy is outside near the boundary line where the wards end.

Remus nods to the small wizard on sentry duty and leads her a ways away. He gingerly puts his hand on the low stone wall, as if he’s not sure just how to do it.

“First I want to tell you there’s been a bit of talk about you lately.”

“Talk?” Hermione asks. Did someone see her and Malfoy in the battle? Has someone guessed what she’s been up to? Was she followed?

“Some people, especially older Order members, are concerned that no one knows where you’re working from these days.”

Hermione takes a deep breath. She’s ready for this, has been working on her very logical excuse for weeks. She’s ashamed that she started thinking it up before she even went back to Malfoy.

“I’m not asking you to tell me where,” Remus says, holding up a hand. “In fact I’m glad you’ve got it hidden, it’s probably a lot safer than anywhere else.” He looks sadly up at the safe house. “I just wanted you to know, so you wouldn’t be caught off guard if someone confronted you about it. You have my blessing to keep it to yourself. Your lab is one of the locations that, if compromised, would hit us hardest.”

Hermione shifts uncomfortably and hugs her threadbare coat tighter against the wind. She nods her agreement, hoping he doesn’t notice the guilt in her eyes. If only he knew her lab has been compromised for weeks.

“Also,” he adds with a faint smile, “I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. I know Dumbledore left you with a lot on your plate and then Snape’s duties on top of that… I have to say, I never thought even you could do it all, but you’ve risen to the occasion beautifully.”

Hermione turns her wince into a smile and hopes he doesn’t notice.

“Molly tells me she’s been able to halve healing potion dosages, they’re working so well. And my last full moon … Never before has a transformation been anything less than painful. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“It was nothing,” she says quietly. If left to her own devices she probably would have killed Remus this time. Would he feel the same if he knew he really owed his thanks to a Death Eater?

“It was a lot,” he says, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t think anyone would ever be able to truly fill Snape’s shoes; he was a rare talent, if a git. I know it must have been hard at first, seeing how much harder it was in practice, but you didn’t let that beat you and we’re all stronger for it.”

He gives her shoulder a final squeeze and leaves her alone. He has no idea what she’s doing, the danger she’s putting all of them in because she’s too afraid to fail.

But Malfoy saved her, that has to mean something.

 


	2. Part 2

The small kitchen is stifling but she refuses to complain. While her Blood Replenishing potion comes to a boil she steps away from the fire and strips off her coat. It’s a bright, sunny day outside but she couldn’t leave the coat behind. There’s always the chance the safe house she’s living out of will be found and she’ll have only enough time to take what she’s wearing. She won’t risk freezing to death later in the year because she was a little sweaty.

Malfoy has already stripped off his outer robes, leaving him in a disturbingly Muggle shirt and slacks. His sleeves are rolled up and the Dark Mark leers at her whenever she catches sight of him.

A bit lighter in her thin t-shirt, she heads to the shelves for supplies. Typically at this stage she would add a few drops of her own blood but Malfoy’s told her to add vampire blood instead.

“Add a bushel of chopped vervain with the beetle shells and it’ll stop any damaging side-effects. The blood’s more magically potent than pure human and can speed the healing process when used correctly. It can also turn you into a vampire if you’re not careful, so try to pay attention.”

She carefully measures out twenty drops of vampire blood and begins stirring. The potion thickens slowly, darkening and becoming more and more viscous. Bored and knowing it will be several minutes before the gently bubbling liquid is done, Hermione lets her mind and gaze wander. Malfoy is bent over his potion, the same one he was working on when he first found her here. The question of what it is sits heavy on her tongue but she holds it back. She’s determined not to ask for any more than she absolutely needs from him and she knows he’ll only taunt her for not being able to identify something they encountered in school.

He pushes hair, thin and greasy with steam and sweat, out of his eyes while he blows gently onto the potion. It’s a trick she’d seen Snape use, watching how breath and steam mingled on the surface of the liquid to tell if it’s done.

He steps out of the fireplace and leans against the cool brick wall. He looks up at her with eyes slightly glazed. His skin is flushed and his breathing heavy. Does the potion have a drugging effect? Could it slow reaction time in battle? Malfoy blinks and his eyes clear. His expression turns to an angry scowl and he slams the lid down on his cauldron before stalking around the room. He knocks precious ingredients about and attacks the filthy cauldrons in the sink.

Hermione turns her attention back to her cauldron, not wanting to invite his ire but mentally cataloging his reactions to the potion for future reference. Several minutes later, when the blood replenishing potion is finally thick enough, the water stops running behind her.

She puts out her fire and lifts her cauldron out of the heat before turning to the cabinets to gather jars for the completed potion. When she turns back she sees Malfoy on a chair, hanging a string across the ceiling. While she watches he opens a drawer and pulls out several long, stiff strings and sticks all but one of them in his back pocket. The one he dips carefully into his potion. Several moments pass with Malfoy poised over the cauldron. Hermione wonders if he’s waiting for the string to catch fire or turn to gold. In the end he only lifts it, now coated with a thick layer of the potion, from the liquid. It drips for several seconds before he dips it back in.

She shakes herself and gets back to her own work, bottling the much-needed Blood Replenishing potion. As she works the air grows thick with the smell of sweat and blood and … wine? She looks to Malfoy, wondering what could cause his potion to smell this way. He’s got a dozen strings going at once now, each mirroring the motions of the one he holds in his hand. Hanging from the string he hanged earlier are pale, grey-pink candles.

“Oh!” she gasps.

He barely glances in her direction. “Something wrong, Granger?”

“I just … I didn’t realize you were making candles.” She’s already running through potions in her mind, trying to find one that smells like wine and might be useful in such a form.

“My hobbies vary wildly,” he says sardonically.

She narrows her eyes but returns to her jars and bottles.

Hours later she waves her wand at the neat rows she’s made and what took her over a week of work vanishes in an instant, each bottle and jar going to safe houses all over Britain. That done, she lifts her arms high over her head, stretching out her spine.

“Granger?” Malfoy asks, his voice deceptively calm and curious.

“Yes?” she asks, lifting the spoon from her empty cauldron.

“Are you a virgin?”

“What the hell-” She whirls, blood red liquid splattering in a wide arch as her spoon flies at him. He catches it but the potion hits him across the face and it looks like blood spurted up from a wound. Her voice fails her at the visual reminder of just what he is.

He doesn’t seem nearly as disturbed. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. He wipes his hands and face with a towel and grabs a dark leather bag from beneath the counter. Whatever sits at the bottom of the bag it’s heavy enough that his knuckles are white and the leather looks strained. He crosses the room to her, bending beneath the rows of candles he’s strung up over the course of the afternoon.

She backs up a step and he rolls his eyes with a small huff like he can’t believe she’d ever distrust him.

“They like twilight,” he says and takes her arm.

Her only thought as they apparate is that she should have known better than to trust a snake like him. A moment later they’re in a small clearing in a forest. She rips her arm from his grasp and pulls out her wand.

“What are you playing at, Malfoy?” she asks when Death Eaters don’t immediately surround them.

“Next is a basic fortifying potion,” he says like he’s giving her a lesson. “I’ve got a variation that’ll give it the added bonus of a cure-all. It won’t fix anything especially nasty but it’ll heal any small cuts and bruises. This variation, however, requires an ingredient I cannot gather myself.”

Hermione crosses her arms over her chest. “And you expect me to do it for you?”

His eyes narrow. “If you’ll recall, these healing potions are for your people, so it would be nice if you actually helped.”

She opens her mouth to retort but his eyes slide away from her and he runs a hand through his hair, a pained expression on his face.

“Fighting is only going to make it harder,” he says quickly. “Just wander.” He gestures vaguely towards the trees.

“How am I supposed to gather ingredients if I’m wandering?” she asks testily. She’s not ready to give up the fight.

He smiles at her. “Your lovely virginal presence will bring them to you.”

“Have you gone completely-” she cuts off. His eyes light up victoriously as she realizes what they’re here for. Twilight. Virgins. She really ought to have realized sooner. “Unicorn. You want me to bring you a unicorn.”

He nods and heaves the sack over his shoulder. It hits his back with an audible thump. “Very good. You just wander and I’ll handle the rest. The unicorns’ll find you soon enough.”

“I’m not helping you kill one,” she says firmly.

His eyes darken and she fights the urge to take a step back. She knows how potent unicorn blood is and she’s not about to help him do something so heinous.

“We’re here for the hair, not the blood, Granger,” he says, his voice a low growl. “And if you ever accuse me of something so immoral again, our arrangement will end.”

He stalks off into the trees and she’s left staring after him in shock. He does know he’s a Death Eater, doesn’t he? He’s on the side of a man who wants to conquer the world and subjugate the majority of its population based solely on their blood. Immoral is a basic part of the job description.

Something moves in the underbrush. She’s not sure if it’s some forest creature or Malfoy, annoyed at her for dawdling, but she begins moving.

She hates not knowing why he’s doing these things or if in the end she’ll have betrayed everyone by trusting him. But maybe Malfoy’s changed. He’s helping her for reasons she can’t fathom, he even saved her in battle and returned her wand to her. Maybe he wants this war to end just as much as she does.

The trees start to thin and she slows her pace. She’s been heading nearly due west and the light is blinding. For a few minutes she just stops, waiting for the sun to set further before moving forward once more. She only makes it a few steps though. The trees end completely and she scrambles back into the brush. There’s nothing out there but rolling hills and more forest and a single house in the distance. She didn’t see anyone but with the sun at the house’s back there’s every chance she simply couldn’t.

She doesn’t have time to catch her breath before something nudges her in the back. She whirls and finds herself face to face with a unicorn.

The silvery white creature startles and backs up a few paces. It tilts its head this way and that, examining her closely.

Back in school she thought the unicorns were beautiful, majestic creatures. They were everything good she ever imagined magic to be when she first discovered what she was. Now all she can see is the horn, over a foot long and sharper than a knife.

The unicorn approaches her again, putting its horn over her shoulder to nuzzle her gently with its snout. She reaches up and runs her hands along its mane. The hair is the softest thing she’s touched in months and she thinks she could fall asleep standing up if she could just hold onto it. Suddenly the unicorn lifts its whole head over her shoulder and begins nudging her deeper into the forest. It uses the sides of its head so that she won’t be injured but remains firm in its designs, refusing to let her back up or get away.

“What do you want?” she asks, stumbling forward in an effort to get ahead so that she can better hold her ground.

There’s a flash of movement as she turns and the unicorn cries out once. It thrashes about, tugging ineffectually at the thin golden rope that holds it captive. Hermione follows the line and finds Malfoy braced against a tree, clutching the free end tight in his hands. There’s blood along it and she lets out a gasp at the sight.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Will you calm this damn thing down?”

Hermione worries her lip, unsure what she can do against an incensed unicorn, but steps forward, hoping to find a solution on the fly. Its movements become less wild as she approaches and she sees it’s trying to keep its horn as far from her as possible even while it twists and turns its neck in an effort to get free. She runs a hand over its mane and it stills entirely. She avoids looking it in the eye, knowing it feels she’s betrayed it somehow. It lowers itself to the ground and she follows, making soothing sounds deep in her throat.

Something metal clangs at her feet and she turns to see a pair of golden scissors and the leather bag in the leaves. Malfoy still has the rope held tight and is keeping as far away as possible.

“I suppose I know why you can’t do this,” she says snidely. The scissors are heavier than she ever imagined and she has to use both hands to lift them. Malfoy pulls the rope and the unicorn is forced to tilt its head so that its mane falls away from its neck.

“Honestly, I don’t even know why they hate me,” he says, voice thick with effort. “The last time I tried this, one tried to run me through.”

Hermione clips at the hair, letting it drop to the bag between her knees. “I doubt they like Death Eaters. Especially boys and non-virgins besides.”

“They liked-” he cuts off, a strange hitch to his voice. “They put up with Bella well enough and I’ve never seen them actually attack anyone else.”

“Maybe you’re just special,” she says. She drops the scissors and flexes her fingers. “Is this enough?”

He cranes his neck to see in the bag. “Should be. Let him go.”

Malfoy steps forward, giving the rope the slack it needs for Hermione to pull it over the horn. The unicorn immediately scampers off, leaving the two of them alone. Malfoy gathers up the rope while Hermione searches the fallen leaves for hairs that might have fallen outside the bag.

“Let me see,” she demands when he approaches her.

“It’s fine,” he says again but she grabs his hands, forcing him to drop the rope. There’s a gash across his right palm. She reaches for her wand but he jerks his hand out of her loosened grasp.

“I can heal it,” she says, glaring at his bent head.

“It’ll keep until we get back and we need to be gone from here.”

“Why?” She thinks of the house she saw and turns her head in that direction. It’s grown steadily darker and she feels a chill of apprehension go through her. “Where are we, exactly?”

Malfoy is coiling the rope, careful to use only the back of his right hand. “This used to be Longbottom land. They’d farm unicorn hair from the woods. They used to have whole fields of herbs but I hear after her son went mental-”

“Don’t!” Hermione snaps. “He didn’t go mental! He was tortured into insanity by your aunt, so don’t you dare talk about it!”

Malfoy grins up at her. “I’ll talk about what I like.” There’s no bite to his words, only pleasure.

She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “I can’t believe I ever thought you might-” A smack of flesh cuts her off and she looks down.

He has his injured hand pressed tight over his opposite forearm. Hermione goes white.

“He’s summoning you,” she breathes.

Malfoy gets back to work, twice as fast as before and not caring about his hand any longer.

“Can you tell if he’s only calling _you_ or…?”

He shakes his head. “No. But if I had to guess I’d say he’s planning an attack. You should go. I assume you can apparate home on your own?”

She nods and steps away. “Malfoy…” She isn’t sure what she wants to say, what she should say. If he were Harry or Ron she’d wish him luck but he’s the enemy, luck for him is the last thing she wants. Finally she settles on, “Stay safe.”

He straightens and gives her a smirk, the same one he so often threw her way in school. “Afraid you’ll lose your teacher?”

Before she can decide if the answer is yes or no, he disapparates.

 

 

\----------

 

 

It’s worse than any fight she’s been in before. The Death Eaters are attacking Andromeda and Ted Tonks’ home, which happens to be where the Order has been hiding Muggle-born and half-blood children. Order members are apparating out with armfuls of children, then back in to carry on the fight. No one is paying mind to the suggested daily apparation limit today.

Somewhere a child is screaming. Hermione spots one crying in a corner and rushes over, stunning an approaching Death Eater on her way. She hugs the child tight and her next breath is of chilly mountain air.

“Hermione?”

She looks up and meets Madam Pomfrey’s worried gaze. She hands over the weeping child without a word and apparates back. A curse hits her shoulder and she stumbles.

“Stupefy!” McGonagall shouts. The Death Eater that got Hermione flies into the nearest wall. Hermione nods her thanks but McGonagall doesn’t see. She’s back to back with Andromeda in the remains of the family room. Through what used to be a wall Hermione sees a Death Eater climb to his feet from the rubble of the dining room. He raises his wand at the two women and goes down instantly, victim of a golf club to the back from Ted Tonks. The man is bleeding from his head and two fingers on his wand hand sit at wrong angles. Hermione doubts they’ll ever find the wand.

“There are more in the basement,” Andromeda calls. Hermione rushes for the stairs.

Neville, Tonks, and Harry are already there, half a dozen children huddled on the floor between their legs. Hermione throws a curse at the first Death Eater she sees and soon the four of them clear out the room.

“You can each take two,” Tonks says, “I’ll cover you ‘til you’re gone.”

“No,” Harry says firmly. “We go together.”

“We don’t have time to debate this,” Hermione snaps.

“Crucio!”

The curse engulfs Hermione, hits her in ever-increasing waves that send her to her hands and knees. Through the pounding in her ears she doesn’t hear Tonks hurl a hex at the Death Eater but knows she has because the pain lessens to a bearable amount.

Neville tries to reach for her while children remain firmly wrapped around his ankles but Hermione shakes him off. She rolls to a squat, facing the Death Eater on the stairs. He’s laying on his back and looks like he’s only slipped on the steps. His head is thrown back and laughter echoes from his mask.

“Come-” Harry starts but another Death Eater appears in the doorway, mask shining bright against the dark.

“Go!” Hermione yells at her friends. The laughing Death Eater lifts his wand but never speaks. His arm falls and his head rolls to the side. The Death Eater above him keeps his wand trained on the prone form for several seconds before relaxing.

“What the hell?” Tonks breathes.

Pops sound around them and Death Eaters appear at the four corners of the room.

“Take the kids!” Neville yells as the fighting begins. Tonks grabs the first children she reaches and apparates out. She appears twice more before they’re all gone and in that time only one Death Eater has fallen. The one who helped them has joined in, silently shooting hexes and curses that glance easily off hastily called shield charms or merely graze the skin. Hermione is left fighting him and another Death Eater while Neville and Harry take on the others behind her.

There’s a pop behind Hermione’s ear and she hears Harry’s muffled cry. She throws up a shield and half turns to see a Death Eater holding her best friend in a headlock. Another pop and they’re gone. Hermione stares at the empty space, unable to process what’s just happened.

Neville roars, bringing Hermione back to her senses. She tries to fight but all she can see is Harry being tortured, being killed.

Suddenly Neville cries out and Hermione hears him fall to his knees. She flings a curse at her opponents and half turns. A flash of orange flies over Neville’s head to hit her in the chest. She crumples to the floor. The world seems to speed up around her and everything is muffled like she was just in an explosion. Green light flies over her head twice. She waits for the flash that will end her life too but instead sees a flash of silver in a stream of black. Warm hands touch her face, move down to her neck, then begin pulling open her coat. Pain flares and her vision goes white. Neville is shouting. The hands disappear and a moment later someone’s taken hold of her wrist and she’s being apparated away.

 


	3. Part 3

She dreams she’s in the house above Draco’s secret potions lab. They’re kneeling on the floor and she’s got his cut hand cupped between hers. The blood wells up like a fountain and pools on the floor between them.

“You can’t fix everything, Granger.” His breath, heavy with alcohol, breaks over her face.

“I can fix this though. If you’ll let me.”

He puts his hand over hers and she smiles up at him, only to be met with his Death Eater mask. Something sharp cuts into the back of her hand. His Dark Mark has come to life, the snake is emerging from his skin, snapping at her while the skull laughs. She backs away and he’s suddenly pushing her into the wall. He’s got her right arm twisted painfully between his chest and her back. Her left he holds against the wall beside her head so she can see the snake twisting around their wrists. The mask is gone when he presses his face into her exposed neck, inhaling her scent. He takes a bit of her skin between his teeth and sucks on it gently. The snake leers at her and opens its mouth wide. She can’t tell if it’s aiming for her fingers or Draco’s knuckles.

“You can’t even fix yourself,” Draco says into her neck, kissing a trail up to her ear, “what makes you think you can fix me?”

The snake strikes and Hermione’s eyes snap open.

The bed she’s laying on is too soft to be anything the Order has access to these days. Her fingers feel rough against the sinfully smooth fabric. The room is dark and it takes time for her eyes to adjust. While they do she listens closely for any sound. The wind is blowing outside, odd that she’d be put in a room with a window. She hears no one breathing, maybe she’s been left without a guard? She strains her ears, focusing with all her might just to be sure. She hears nothing new save faint music in the distance. She can distinguish between the dark of the ceiling and the canopy now and gently lifts her head.

She’s in a bedroom. The only light comes in thin beams where the curtains over the single window don’t close properly. Everything she sees is the height of opulence, from the couch near the window to the book resting with one corner off the bedside table.

Hermione pushes herself up onto her elbows and gasps. There’s a tug in her chest like she’s got stitches. She has her robes half open when she realizes she was wearing Muggle clothes before and what she’s in now are far more expensive than any robes she ever owned. The skin just below her breast is puckered and pale. It must have been one nasty curse to scar so she’s thankful she was seen to quickly even if it did have to happen in Malfoy Manor.

Gingerly she slides out of bed, using one of the bedposts for support while she catches her breath. Her feet are bare and she searches the floor for shoes. She puts on a pair of slippers that were peeking out from under the bed and finds her boots beside the small desk in the corner. Her clothes are folded atop the desk and her wand lies next to them. She hurries to grab it and is fortified once her fingers touch the smooth wood.

“Lumos,” she breathes, her voice too loud in the silence. Nothing happens. Malfoy must have charmed her wand not to work again.

There are four doors in the room. Two won’t open. A third leads to a closet the size of her old bedroom. The fourth leads to a bathroom. She searches every drawer for anything useful. There’s nothing but powders and perfumes and bottles of potion. She considers breaking any one of the delicate perfume bottles to make a weapon but none are big enough to do much damage. Everything in both rooms is in exactly the right place so she takes special notice of the trash behind the toilet. It’s filled with blood-soaked towels. She reaches for the one hanging over the edge to the floor then thinks better of it and pulls her hand back. Her knuckles graze the basket, pushing it back. The towel drags along the floor, leaving a trail of blood. She feels lightheaded with the realization that it’s hers.

She stumbles back into the bedroom and realizes there’s something wrong. There are three lamps in the room but every flat surface has at least one candle sitting atop it. She picks up the closest one and carries it to the window. In the thin shafts of light she can see it’s the same color as the ones Malfoy was making. She looks around in confusion. Why would he waste so much time brewing and making candles, just to leave them here?

The knob on one of the two locked doors twists. She doesn’t have time to hide before the door swings open and Malfoy enters. His eyes widen at seeing her up and he looks carefully from the candle in her hand to her face. He closes the door softly behind him.

“You’re up,” he says quietly.

“Where’s Harry?”

He takes in a deep, calming breath. “You’re lucky. That spell could easily have killed you.”

“Where’s Harry?”

He steps up to her, using his full height in an attempt to intimidate her. “You are here under my protection. As you can no doubt imagine this puts me in a great deal of danger, so you might want to be a little grateful instead of demanding information.”

He snatches the candle from her hand and crosses the room to replace it exactly where it was.

“What are they for?” she asks, glad when his spine stiffens. He’s the one who wanted a change of subject. “You spend all that time on them and they’re not even a weapon.”

“Are you so sure they’re not?” he asks, using his wand to light the one he took from her. He breathes deeply for several beats before turning to her. “Would you like to see what they’re for?”

She hesitates a moment—they could be dangerous, but that’s all the more reason to see what they do and every minute in his presence is another chance to find out what’s happened to Harry. She nods decisively and he offers her his arm. Tentatively, she takes it and lets him lead her into the hall.

He keeps his pace slow so that she doesn’t have to rush. Her slippered feet pad quietly over the carpet. He fills the silence with talk of the house, like she’s a welcome guest he’s showing around.

“This wing is devoted to the family. The others never come here, not even _him_.”

He’s talking about the other Death Eaters, she realizes and is surprised to find they have some social graces.

“Are there many of them in the house now?” she asks, keeping her voice casual.

He looks at her sideways and she swears she sees the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Potter’s not here,” he says and Hermione deflates slightly. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. “The room you’re staying in,” Malfoy goes on, “was my mother’s. No one ever goes there except my father and me, not even Bella. It’s the safest place for you.”

Her fingers tighten involuntarily on his arm. “I-I hadn’t heard,” she says, “about your mother.”

The only sign of any pain he gives is a slight tightening of his jaw. She squeezes his arm comfortingly.

The music she heard earlier grows louder the further they go, reaching its peak when they stop before a door at the end of a hallway. While he produces a key to open it Hermione wonders what candles and a slow waltz have to do with the war.

Those thoughts abandon her when the door swings open. She steps through the door onto a balcony that runs around the edge of the room. The room is vast, about half the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Along the balcony’s railing and all over the floor at the edges of the ballroom below are hundreds of candles. With so many the smoke and smell of blood and wine is choking. In the middle of it all is Lucius Malfoy, arms raised in perfect dancer’s posture, waltzing across the floor.

“He broke – after she died,” Malfoy says, stepping up to the railing beside her. “He’s almost as bad as Bella now, as you’ve probably noticed,” he adds wryly. “But he doesn’t stop. When the battle’s over he just keeps going, attacking everything in sight until he’s either stupefied or collapses in exhaustion. The only time he was ever calm was in her room. I found him crying into her robes one day, muttering about the fading smell.” He runs his fingers through the flame on one of the candles, flirting with danger. “It took a bit of fiddling but I finally got Amortentia to take a solid form. It lets him feel like he’s close to her again.”

She pushes aside the impulse to take a deep whiff and analyze it. Instead she asks, “Why do you brew it at your other-” Her hand flies to her mouth. “You inherited the house from her, didn’t you?”

He smiles unhappily. “Yes. I brew it there because Voldemort has a habit of stopping in on my lab here. I’d rather he not read my mind while I’m under Amortentia’s effects.”

“What do you smell?” she asks and instantly regrets it. “No, don’t answer that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s all right.” He takes one last lingering look at his father, dancing alone beneath them, and turns to the door. “Let’s get you back, you still need your rest.”

She lets him close and lock the door on his father’s grief before holding up a hand to stop him. “Tell me where he is,” she says firmly.

His scowl frightens her but she refuses to be cowed. “I’m not on your side, Granger. My reasons for helping you are mine and mine alone. Do not presume that I give a damn for Saint Potter or the Order.”

She opens her mouth to argue with him, convince him he has good and decent reasons for helping them, but he grabs her arm in a bruising grip and drags her behind him. With the ache in her chest it’s all she can do to keep up.

 

 

\----------

 

 

The doorknob turning wakes her. She quickly sits up on the narrow couch, clutching her chest where the wound still pains her.

Malfoy stops, the door falling closed behind him. In one arm he carries a silver tray. Angry heat is rising to his face.

“Tell me you didn’t sleep there,” he says, his voice dangerously low.

Hermione tugs the thin blanket up around her shoulders. She went to bed fully dressed but something about Malfoy seeing her just awake feels indecent. “I didn’t think it would be right-”

“You already slept one night in my mother’s bed, or would doing so consciously be too disturbing to your fragile Order sentiments?”

Her hands fist in the fabric. “Given your mother’s rather outspoken stance on blood purity I imagined she might be the one disturbed.”

“My mother isn’t disturbed by anything these days, Granger.” He turns away from her entirely to set his tray down on the end of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says instinctively. “But you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Lie down,” he orders, gesturing to the bed.

“Why?” she asks, frowning.

He rings out a cloth over a bowl of potion. The stink is strong enough she has to cover her nose, even at a distance of several feet. Malfoy doesn’t seem affected.

“If you want that injury to heal properly you’ll need a bit more care.”

“What do I need to do?” she asks, forcing herself to endure the smell and come to stand next to him over the tray.

He looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. “Lie down,” he repeats slowly.

They engage in a silent battle of wills, her waiting for explanations, him waiting for her to move. She finally gives in, figuring if he wanted to hurt her he could have done so a million ways by now. And, she thinks as she sinks into the mattress, if she complies he might actually tell her something about Harry.

The bed is a blessing after a night on the couch. The muscles in her neck and shoulders immediately relax into the soft mattress, hoping to lull her to sleep. She pulls open her robes and tugs up the shirt beneath. Malfoy sits on the edge of the bed beside her, his hip resting against her thigh.

“You’ll have to pull it up more,” he says.

She feels herself flush as she rolls the fabric up over her breasts. She’s wearing a bra of course, but she can count on one hand the number of men who have seen her covered by that alone. Malfoy is the last man she ever imagined on that list. She stares resolutely up at the canopy. Looking at him will only make it worse.

He presses the wet cloth on the scar and burning heat crackles out from it, making her gasp. She screws her eyes shut against the pain.

“It’s okay,” he says, his breath ghosting over her neck. His fingers wrap around her side, resting between her ribs to roll her over onto her side. Tears well up in her eyes as the pain continues to spread.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“There’s still dark magic in you, I have to draw it out.”

“Won’t it just dissipa- _ah_!” The pain stops spreading, all at once coalescing in one place just below her left breast.

Malfoy makes soothing sounds and slowly the pain lessens, becoming a dull ache. An eternity later a warm cloth wipes at her stomach before being pressed over the single spot where she still feels pain. He takes one of her hands and presses it to the cloth, silently telling her to keep up the pressure. He eases her down to lay flat once more. Her breath is heavy as she tries to focus past the pain. She opens her eyes and sees his face, white as parchment. She angles her head down so she can see what holds his interest beside her. On the bed is a shallow bowl, filled near to the brim with her blood and a dark shining substance that makes her stomach roll.

“Did you really have to cut me open?” she asks faintly.

“You’ll forgive me if I think I know more about dark curses than you do.”

He twists to set the bowl gently on the tray, along with the potion-soaked cloth and the knife she hadn’t seen. Now that there’s nothing in the way, he scoots a few inches closer to her and begins to pull away the cloth she holds. His fingers graze her skin, making her jump. The memory of her dream returns and her eyes fly to his lips, slightly parted as he surveys the damage. She wonders how the reality of his kiss would differ from her dream. She must be very warm for his breath to feel so cool over her breasts and stomach, she blames it on the pain and dark magic.

His eyes slide up to hers. “One small healing spell and you’ll be good as new,” he says.

The cool rationality of his words shocks her back to reality. She nods. She doesn’t realize he was asking for permission until relief shines in his eyes. She pulls down her shirt quickly once the spell is done, glad when he steps away like nothing is amiss. And that’s because nothing is. She’s just having a bad reaction to the pain and the dream.

She mentally scolds herself. No matter the cause, she should be thinking about Harry, not having impure thoughts about Draco Malfoy.

“Is-” she begins, figuring now is as good a time as any to ask again. Malfoy presses a glass of pumpkin juice to her lips, in his eyes is a clear warning that she had better drink. The moment he pulls the glass away her eyelids grow heavy.

“Bastard ferret,” she says weakly. “You spiked it with a sleeping draught.”

“Of course,” he says as she drifts off. “Can you think of a better way to keep your curiosity contained?”

 

 

\----------

 

 

She sits at the desk. She’s tried every other spot in the room. The couch is too opulent, the floor feels like she’s hiding, and she’s never been one to sit in bed all day. She recites old school facts in her head, useless things like the major events of the Goblin Wars and how many stars are in Cassiopeia. There are books on the shelves but she’s realized the one on the bedside table is askew because that’s how Narcissa left it. She can’t bring herself to touch anything in the room after that.

One of the candles on the edge of the desk is burned down to nearly nothing. Though they fill the room the smell is faint, apparently activated by exposure to flame. She tugs the small candle free, leaving behind a broken ring of melted wax globs and a circle of discolored wood. She holds her breath while she examines it, studying the texture to see just how Malfoy managed to make it. She peels some of the wax away with her nail and rubs it between her fingers, taking note of the texture. She has the candle halfway to her nose to take a whiff when she realizes what she’s doing and pulls it away. At almost the same moment the doorknob begins to turn and, feeling oddly guilty, she stuffs the candle into her pocket.

“Finally,” she says quietly, “do you have any idea how long I’ve-”

But it’s not Malfoy entering the room – or, not the one she expects. Lucius Malfoy seems to fill the doorway, dark robes contrasting starkly with his pale hair and features.

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat. He’s mad, Malfoy said so himself. Her wand, still enchanted not to work in the Manor, will be of little use if he decides to take issue with a mudblood in his late wife’s room.

Lucius’ eyes don’t focus on her, though. They don’t seem to focus on anything at all. The door swings slowly shut behind him and his hand finds the wall. His head shifts toward the spot where his fingers touch the simple molding, and his eyes focus momentarily. Pain crumples his aristocratic features. Hermione feels her heart break in sympathy. She’s never seen love like this, the kind that could turn something so simple as a wall fixture into something of sentimental value. She lets out a sad, quiet sigh.

Lucius’ head snaps around, his gaze fixing on her with predatory precision. He stalks toward her. She tries to get away but the chair legs catch on the carpet and he’s at her side before she can get out. His eyes, darker than his son’s, study her face and his fingers catch a lock of her hair, twisting it idly.

“My fault,” he mutters slowly, words spilling out of him in disjointed snatches of thought. “Let her choose. My old friend. Always so clever. Thought he was best. Never thought he’d corrupt the boy. Should have known.”

“M-Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione says slowly, hoping to snap him out of it.

“Father,” Malfoy’s cold voice stills his father. “Ms. Granger is our guest. You know that.” Hermione’s gaze flashes gratefully to Malfoy in the doorway. His steely eyes are fixed on his father, though his posture is relaxed. He leans casually to one side, wand nowhere to be seen. His left hand rests lightly atop a dark coat, draped over his opposite arm as if he just came inside.

Lucius gives her hair a soft tug, his face twisting into a sneer. “Better than hers. Less Weasleyish.”

“Yes,” Malfoy says long-sufferingly. “Ms. Granger looks very different from Ms. Evans.”

Lucius whirls to face his son. “Didn’t even know her,” he sniffs.

“I’ve seen memories,” Malfoy says simply.

His father approaches him. They stand eye to eye, one calm, one crazed. Lucius lifts a finger to tap his son’s temple. “He taught you well. Not even he could keep our master out.”

“I know, father,” Malfoy says, sadness creeping into his expression and tone.

Lucius glances at Hermione then back at Malfoy, his finger still resting against his son’s temple. “He’ll kill you if he sees.”

Malfoy nods solemnly. “I know, father.”

Lucius lets his hand fall to his son’s shoulder and squeezes it tightly on his way out.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says once the door is closed. “He promised he’d stay out while you’re here.”

She swore the next time she saw him the first thing she’d say would be to ask about Harry again, perhaps catch him off guard with it, but all she says is, “Thank you.”

Malfoy smirks. “I didn’t exactly do it for you. I doubted he’d appreciate my mother’s memory being tarnished like this.”

“I meant for bringing me here at all.”

He looks sharply at her and she quickly continues.

“I didn’t understand much of what he said, but that last part was pretty clear. If Voldemort finds out you’ve hidden me, you’ll die.”

Malfoy turns away, adjusting his hold on the coat in his arms. “I have entirely selfish motives, I assure you.”

“I can’t see any from where I’m sitting.”

He smiles at her. “Are you so perfectly noble? You’re Potter’s right hand. Should we lose this war a word from you, a confession that I’ve been helping you-”

“That’s not why. That can’t be.”

“Believe what you will,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.

She frowns, wishing he’d just admit to being a good person. But maybe he’s not. Maybe she only wants him to be so this strange fluttering in her chest will feel less like a betrayal of all she believes.

“Snape taught you Occlumency?” she asks, hoping to change the subject to something that will put him in a better mood. She doesn’t question why she’d want such a thing.

He sighs and leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Yes. He started training me when I was very young, long before I was even aware it was happening. Mother asked him to, I think.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as he mentions his mother.

She nods and bites her lip. She’d hoped to get a big more conversation from that, if only to fill the silence. “Who was Ms. Evans?”

Malfoy laughs softly. “A mudblood.”

She doesn’t react to the word. “Not—Lily Evans? Harry’s mother?”

“Right in one, Granger. She and Snape were good friends once upon a time. My father worries I’m developing a similar softness for you.”

“Oh.” The fluttering in her chest strengthens.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of changing my opinions of you.”

“Good to know,” she says primly. “Will I be leaving here soon or do I require more treatments?”

His eyes fall to her chest and she shifts uncomfortably. She reminds herself he’s seeing only the wound in his memory, not a woman’s body.

“No,” he says softly and swallows as he looks away. “That should have done it. I have a portkey to my mother’s house if you’re ready.”

She nods to cover her surprise that they’re going so soon. She gathers the few articles of clothing she’s not wearing—tattered jeans and a threadbare blouse—and her wand, slipping them into bigger-on-the-inside pockets in the robes he’s given her while he pulls a teacup wrapped in a napkin from his pocket. He taps it once with his wand and nods to her to take it. She slides a finger through the handle while he takes hold of the rim. Seconds tick by and she feels him watching her. She looks up and meets his eyes. In that moment they look so much like his father’s, so sad and hopeless, that it breaks her heart. She reaches instinctively for his arm at the same moment the portkey activates.

She stumbles into him when they land in the familiar kitchen. He holds her, letting her decide when she’s ready to stand. She pulls back, self-conscious.

The room stinks of Amortentia. Her only excuse for not recognizing it before is that her feelings have obviously changed since sixth year. There’s no parchment, no freshly cut grass. It’s no longer as crisp and clean as that. It smells thick and messy and sits heavily on the roof of her mouth when she inhales. The war has changed her.

“Come with me,” she says impulsively. “You can tell us where Harry is, help us save him. When they know what you’ve been doing for us-”

“Why do you keep harping on this, Granger?” he snaps, already gathering ingredients for a new batch of Amortentia.

“Because you belong with us. You wouldn’t be doing all this if you didn’t. You said Snape didn’t leave you a message in his journal. You helped me because you wanted to, because you don’t believe those things anymore.”

“I helped you because I was guilty!” he snaps, rounding on her. “He was my godfather! He was like family! He protected me! And when he died I wasn’t even there! That’s why I helped you, Granger. I owed him a debt I could never repay.”

Hermione clenches her hands to stop their shaking at his sudden eruption. “I’m sorry,” she says, truly meaning it as she looks in his haunted eyes.

He sags against the table, unmindful of the jars of ingredients he knocks over. He runs his hands over his face and through his hair. Hermione begins to edge towards the door, thinking it well past time she leave.

“Also,” Malfoy says, his voice tight, “I can’t leave my father. He won’t survive and- and he’d never accept changing sides. Not now. Not after…”

“I understand,” Hermione says.

He nods, not looking at her.

“At least tell me where Harry is.”

He lets out a harsh laugh and his head drops back. “Merlin, Granger.” He pushes off from the table and returns to work.

“Please, Malfoy!” she begs, rushing to him. She grabs his arm and he stills instantly, eyes going to her hand. “Please. We need him.”

He looks away, shaking his head.

She bites back a sob. “Is he alive?” she asks quietly, her voice shaking.

“Yes.”

She feels tears in her eyes. Knowing he’s alive is almost worse. What must he have been going through all these days while she’s been living in luxury?

“Just go, Granger,” he says, shaking her off. “And don’t forget your coat this time.”

Surprised by the order, she glances to the chair where she usually throws her coat. On the table before it is Snape’s journal, which she always kept in her pocket, but the old coat is missing. In its place is the coat he had at the Manor. She sees now it’s a woman’s coat, warm and dark, perfect for her needs.

She looks up to Malfoy but he’s pointedly ignoring her. Any thanks she gives him would be ignored or twisted to sound like an insult, it’s better not to say anything. Is the coat his way of apologizing about Harry? If so it’s a bad one.

Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth—especially when he’s clearly already thrown her old coat away—she throws the new around her shoulders. The left side hits her thigh heavily and she reaches curiously into the pocket. Inside is a small vial with a few strands of unicorn hair and, sitting heavily at the bottom, a bloody clump of black hairs.

She runs to the door, has her hand on the knob when he asks, “What does it smell like? To you?”

She takes a deep breath though she already knows the answer. He doesn’t wait for her to speak but instead comes up behind her, close enough that their bodies touch. It’s enough like her dream to send a thrill up her spine.

“To me it smells like this,” he says softly. “Like the night I caught you in the garden. Like the battle when you refused to leave your friend. Like the morning I woke up beside you and thanked whatever deity was listening that you’d survived the night.” He runs his fingers lightly down her arm. “You should know that if you ever decide to come back.”

 


	4. Part 4

The wards accept her and she’s running so fast the sentry doesn’t move to stop her until she’s already inside the house. There’s a meeting on in the kitchen, at least half the official Order stuffed in there. Every eye and wand goes to her when she bursts in. A moment later Arthur and Percy are each holding one of Ron’s arms, keeping him from running to her.

“I know,” she gasps. “I know protocol and you can’t trust me after so long but I know where Harry is and do you really want to waste time?”

Those few who have lowered their wands turn to look at Remus, but it’s Moody who speaks. “I say let the girl talk. She’s not Secret Keeper for any of our hideouts so her babbling can’t be a distraction.”

“And if she’s just going to attack us at the first opportunity?” Kingsley asks. “No offense,” he adds with a nod to her.

“None taken,” she says.

“She’s not likely to do it now,” Moody says. “And it’ll be good practice for us all to find if she’s under Imperius or an imposter.”

Hermione looks to Remus. He gives a faint nod of permission.

“Neville,” she says, “your family farm, how much can you tell us about it?”

“What?” Neville asks, his confused face a mirror of every other in the room. “Why?”

“That’s where they’ve got Harry.”

“What!”

“Hermione…”

“What makes you think they’re keeping him there?” Remus asks, his voice carrying over the crowd.

Hermione worries her lip and forces herself to meet Remus’ stare. “You said I had your blessing to keep it secret,” she says. “And I’m sorry but this is part of it.”

His gaze hardens and he leans back into his chair, physically pulling away. She’s lost his trust.

“Tell us everything you can, Neville,” he says, his eyes still trained on Hermione. “We’ll need to scout the place out first.”

Neville does his best to tell them about the house he grew up in: all the ways in and out, the secret passages, the trick stairs. His memory’s certainly improved since their school days, or they hope it has.

“Hermione?” Ron asks, finally having escaped his family’s hold. “How do you know?”

She shakes her head and fingers the vial in her pocket. “I can’t say.”

 

 

\----------

 

 

It’s worse than the last battle. The Order is desperate to free Harry and the Death Eaters are just as desperate to keep him. Curses saturate the air so thoroughly just moving stings the skin. Hermione tries not to look at anyone too closely, noting only masks and where wands are pointing to determine whose side they’re on. There are far too many mutilated corpses walking around, not to mention the people who survived such curses and are still fighting.

There was a plan at one point. They were going to be sneaky, using Neville’s knowledge of the house to get in and out quickly. That fell apart fast though and things became so desperate that no one even bothered trying to keep her out of the fight. They still don’t trust her but she figures since no Order members have tried to hex her, she’s doing okay.

She still hasn’t heard anything about Harry when the first shouts of “Fire!” reach her. It doesn’t register in her brain. She’s too busy fending off hexes and curses aimed her way by a grinning Death Eater. He throws the Cruciatus at her and she has just enough sense to dodge to the side, nearly tripping over a fallen beam in her rush. She hurls a frantic Jelly Legs Jinx at him, the first spell she thinks of.

People are rushing down the stairs behind him, throwing spells over their shoulders. Even this mob doesn’t distract her from her opponent. The blond trying to force his way through the mob does.

His hood’s been pushed down. He fairly throws men aside trying to get through to the upper floors. Someone pushes back and Malfoy staggers. His eyes meet hers and even at this distance she can see he’s frantic.

“Morsus!” the Death Eater yells. The spell catches Hermione in the leg and she falls, feeling rows of shallow cuts circle her calf.

“Stupefy!” Malfoy yells. He’s passing the Death Eater before the man’s even hit the ground.

“I’m fine,” Hermione says.

Malfoy doesn’t take her at her word and instead pulls up the leg of her pants. She does a healing spell before he can and the cuts vanish. He frowns at her but she’s not about to be chastened by him.

“Do you know-?”

“Potter’s safe outside, I passed him and Weasley on my way in.”

“Thank God,” Hermione breathes. Her relief vanishes the next second. “Wait, if he’s out there what are you doing in here?” Shouldn’t he be trying to get him back?

Malfoy looks up to the ceiling. Smoke is gathering there, the upper floors no longer enough to hold it.

“My father started this,” he says. He meets her eyes again, his desperate, determined. “I have to find him.”

“Malfoy,” she says with no idea what she means to say next.

“Be safe,” he orders, the same way he tells her to chop rat livers.

She catches his sleeve. “I can help you. You’ll have a better chance of finding him with two people looking.”

His eyes soften behind those two small holes, seeing something in her gaze she can’t herself identify. Her free hand reaches up for his mask. He catches her wrist before she can touch the cool metal.

“Only a Death Eater can remove their mask,” he says. “And I’m really not the sort of guy you should be kissing goodbye.”

Instinctively she opens her mouth to lie and say she wasn’t about to do anything of the kind. He uses her anger to his advantage. Her grip on him has loosened and he runs away. She jumps up to follow but a hand grabs her wand arm from behind. She turns, twisting her wrist and elbow so her wand is pointed up at her attacker, only to find herself face to face with Neville.

“It’s burning down!” he gasps. His face is covered in soot and there’s a bloody gash in his shoulder.

He pulls her to her feet and she helps him from the house, gathering other Order members they pass on the way. Most of the battles have broken up as the impending destruction of the building became apparent. Hermione only has to throw one hex before they make it outside where the rest of the Order is already gathered around Harry, protecting him from any fleeing Death Eaters who might think to take him back.

“Hermione!” he gasps. His voice is a rough breath with barely any sound to it and even the one word makes him pull back sharply in pain.

Ron holds him while he coughs and Hermione rushes to his side, her stomach turning at the sight of blood falling through the fingers over his mouth. She forces him to stand straight and begins examining him.

There’s little she can tell for certain on the battlefield but he’ll live. She tells him as much and he smiles weakly.

The battle seems to be done. No one’s coming out of the house anymore and it’s been several minutes since any spells were cast. Smoke is rising high into the air, blotting out the stars. Hermione only hopes no Muggle authorities see it. Corrupt as the Ministry is right now, they’ll still have someone out here once the fighting’s finished and that someone will be more likely to kill than memory charm.

“It’s a shame, son,” Remus says gently and Hermione looks up to see him resting a hand on Neville’s shoulder. The boy’s face is lit up by the flames consuming his childhood home.

“I’d rather it burn,” he says, though Hermione can see the shine of tears on his cheeks.

Hermione worries her lip. There’s no way of knowing if Malfoy is still in there or if he got his father out by now. She prays it’s the latter.

“A great victory,” Moody says, jovial as he ever is. “Granger back, Potter rescued, and a captive of our own.”

Harry shoots Hermione a questioning look but she ignores it, searching for the captive. On the ground, between Tonks and Bill, is a shivering body. He grasps his dark cloak tight about himself.

“What I wouldn’t give to see the git’s face when he realizes we’ve got his father,” Ron laughs.

Hermione gasps and rushes over, pulling the hood away from Lucius Malfoy’s face before anyone can stop her. He turns to her with an animalistic hiss but it softens the moment he sees her. Several pairs of arms pull her away from him.

“You,” he says, turning away. “Not your fault. Filthy mudblood.” He says the words without malice. To him they are a fact, certain as the sun’s rising.

A foot, Hermione doesn’t see whose, hits the man in the back.

Lucius coughs painfully. “Snape’s,” he goes on, no mind to his injury. “Never should have trusted… My oldest friend.”

“Hermione,” Ron says, holding her shoulders tight and trying to take her attention away from him. “It’s okay. We’ve got him and we’ve got Harry. It’s okay.”

She shakes her head. It’s not. Not at all. There’s a great creaking behind her and she turns just as the house collapses.

 

 

\----------

 

 

That night, after a vigorous round of healing spells and potions, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sit up together in an empty room. Harry tells them everything specific he can remember from his questioning. Ron tells them what the Order was up to while they were gone—mostly searching for them both but also cutting off owl communications across the country. Luckily Voldemort is busy quelling a rebellion in Scotland and hasn’t yet received word of Harry’s capture, otherwise tonight might have had a whole different ending.

The boys both turn to Hermione, waiting for her tale. She looks away, unsure what to tell them. Before she has time to find words to say two hands rest over hers.

“You don’t have to tell us what happened,” Ron says.

Harry simply pulls her into a one-armed hug. She reaches for Ron and for several minutes they’re content to just hold one another. When she begins crying she lets them think it’s because of whatever nightmare she’s supposed to have suffered the last few days.

They’re all too exhausted to find beds downstairs and instead roll up their cloaks and coats for pillows and spread out on the wooden floor. If either of the boys notice Hermione’s new clothing they don’t comment.

There’s a lump in her pocket and as she tries to adjust her position she remembers what it must be. The candle from the Manor. She stuffs it into her coat along with the vial of unicorn hair. The smell bleeds through the fabric and she takes a deep breath. Smoke, herbs, blood, and wine. She sees Draco watching his father dance alone; feels him watching her while they work in the sweltering kitchen; hears him tell her it will be okay while he cuts into her; and tastes his breath, close enough to kiss, on the battlefield.

She hugs the coat he gave her tight. She wants to pretend it will be all right, that he’s alive somewhere, but she’s too rational for that. He never would have left that house without his father. No son who would spend months brewing Amortentia in secret just so his father could live in a fantasy world would leave without him.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

 

 

\----------

 

 

It doesn’t take long to convince the Order that Lucius has gone insane. They’re understandably disappointed that their prisoner is no longer the high ranking Death Eater they thought him to be.

In a meeting with Harry, Ron, Remus, Mad-Eye, and Tonks, Hermione comes clean.

She tells them everything, leaving out only the parts of her story that no one needs to know. Following in Snape’s footsteps and disillusionment after his mother’s death and father’s decent into insanity are good enough reasons for Draco’s change of heart. No one needs to know what Amortentia smelled like to him. Or to her.

“He saved your life,” Harry says in awe.

She nods. “He saved all our lives. My healing potions wouldn’t be half as potent without his help and I never would have mastered the Wolfsbane Potion.”

She sees Tonks’ hand grip Remus’ tightly and ignores the small pang it sends through her heart.

“Are we-” Ron begins but cuts off when he meets her eyes.

“What, Ron?” Tonks asks.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and doesn’t look at her again. “Are we sure this is really Hermione?”

“Ron!” Harry hisses.

“I’m serious! If there’s anyone less likely than Malfoy to switch sides it’s—it’s You-Know-Who!”

Hermione keeps her gaze level on all of them. She has nothing to hide.

“If she was going to betray us,” Mad-Eye says gruffly, “she would have done it last night.”

Remus nods in agreement and that’s the end of that.

“What I don’t understand though,” Tonks says, “is why you didn’t tell us.”

“Would you really have let me go? If you knew who I was going to?”

“No,” three voices say at once. Remus glances indulgently towards Harry and Ron, and continues himself. “But I still wish you’d have told us. Knowing, as we do now, that he had truly changed … we could have used someone like him.”

There’s not much else to be said after that. Hermione is allowed to continue her work as Potions Master, but is confined to Order hideouts.

Lucius is a new problem. They can’t let him go but having a half-mad Death Eater in an Order safe house isn’t a good match. Hermione does her best to look out for him, making small batches of Amortentia whenever she gets the chance. He’s well-behaved in general and even takes a shine to Teddy, telling the infant fairy tales and singing him nursery rhymes. On his bad days he destroys whole rooms. Once he even rips out half a wall with his bare hands, sparking a debate over whether he should be given any of their precious healing draughts. He never asks about Draco but sometimes he will look around, suddenly alert, and Hermione knows he’s searching for his son.

He’d be better with more Amortentia but with only one small fireplace to work from, Hermione doesn’t have the means to make it often. The liquid loses its smell faster than the candles do and she sets herself to seeking out Draco’s secret. If nothing else it will distract her from the distrustful looks she still feels.

 

 

\----------

 

 

She shouldn’t be here. She’s under strict orders not to go anywhere without escort and though no one’s ever said not to come back to Malfoy’s second home, it’s the sort of thing she should know better than to do.

Still, she needs to find a way to help Lucius and if she can only see the kitchen again, look at the stores of ingredients, she knows she can figure out what Draco added to the Amortentia.

The smell of it permeates the house even now. It’s so thick Hermione has to stop at the kitchen door. She thinks it might be making her sick, whether from actual nausea or heartache she doesn’t know. It will be worse in the kitchen but she has to do this. She pushes inside and walks down the familiar set of steps, only to stop dead. There’s a cauldron on a single blazing fire, a man in dark robes bent over it.

Her chest is so tight she can’t imagine how her heart can find room to pound so loudly. She must make some noise because he turns sharply, surprise and joy flashing quickly over his face before it settles into a defiant mask.

He’s alive. _He’salivehe’salivehe’salive_. The thought must rattle around in her mind for a while because he finally gives in and speaks first.

“You’re late,” he says and glances at his watch-less wrist. “By several weeks in fact. Get to work. No doubt your Order is suffering with only you to brew for them. We can discuss my father’s return once you’ve prepared the ingredients for a Dreamless Sleep Potion.”

“You,” she says.

“Yes, me,” he says testily, going back to his potion—another batch of Amortentia from the looks of it. “I apparated out just before the support beams gave way. You should have seen the looks on the other Death Eaters’ faces when I walked into that meeting. They’d all thought I was dead. Most of them were fighting over who got my family’s money and land with me gone and my father in the Order’s tender care.” He lifts a ladleful of the potion and pours it slowly out, watching carefully. “As it was I got the remains of the Longbottom property as my reward for ‘dedication to the cause’ and ‘staying until the bitter end’ as my lord put it. You can tell Longbottom I’ll take good care of it for him until all this is over.”

Hermione ignores most of this, paying only enough attention so that she can examine what he’s saying later.

“You,” she says again.

“What?” He frowns, half-turning towards her, the ladle again suspended over his cauldron.

She takes a deep, calming breath and walks forward. When they’re an arm’s length away from each other she says, “I smell _you_.”

He stares – for so long that she begins to question her memory and wonders if his confession was all in her head. Finally he drops the ladle. He grabs her, dragging her to him for a kiss. Her arms wrap around his neck and his around her waist, holding her so tight to him it’s almost painful. She digs his fingers into his hair, returning the pressure and barring all escape. When he pulls back, gasping, they rest their foreheads against one another.

Hermione smiles into his bright grey eyes and breathes deep.

 


End file.
